


Hanging On the Telephone

by tristesses



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Blackmail, F/M, Knifeplay, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel receives a disturbing late-night call, bombs are wired to Harvey's car, and the Joker has a knife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hanging On the Telephone

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea what warnings to put on this, so I checked the choose not to warn box. It's emotional dub-con, basically, though they aren't in the same vicinity. So read with caution.
> 
> Originally posted on 7/31/2008.

Yes, rewiring the phone had been _hilarious_. Seeing his goons shout and flail while attempting to dial the numbers of mob bosses and drug dealers had been really, really _funny_. Well worth the pain and humiliation of buying reading glasses so he could see the damn wires in the first place. But now – with the first actual, important call this telephone line has seen in decades – he can’t remember which numbers are which, and which one releases the nerve gas. He’s not sure if he hooked that up, actually, but it sounds like something he’d like to leave to chance.

Ah well. Such is life, when one is an agent of chaos.

“Did I say that out loud?”

The Joker lays his cheek on the desk, phone held limply in one hand, and stares desolately at the group of men playing poker at the round table across the room. They’re either oblivious to their boss’s whims or are ignoring him on purpose. Joker disapproves of both options quite heartily.

“Oh boys, boys, stupid silly boys,” he singsongs without moving. They still disregard him. Idiots.

Joker sighs, considers the weapons crowding the desk, and selects a pistol; he rears back in his chair, nearly staggers to his feet, and fires into the ceiling. It could use a little more drama – rafters falling, things _burning_ – but he heard a cat (or a human) scream from upstairs, and got the attention of his mercenaries, and that’s good enough for him.

“You’re _boring_ me,” he informs them. Their expressions alternate between terrified (cowardly, weak) and stoic (the same, only they’re hiding it). “So leave. Go – go rob some hobos. Or, uh, vio _layte_ a teenager. Do whatever you thugs do in your spare time. Just go go _go_!”

They go, but not before scraping their winnings into green piles and hurriedly stashing them in wallets and pockets. Joker watches them go, humming a tune that actually doesn’t really have one. Or maybe that’s because he can’t sing. Either way.

Singing now (badly, tunelessly, but cheerfully, and that’s the whole point), he takes the back off the phone again and looks at the little wires, bristling like cockroach legs.

“Normally I wouldn’t do this,” he informs them, finding his glasses and tweezers somewhere in the jumble of knives, “but this is one – important – call – and I just can’t afford to miss it!”

The phone fixed and the task done, he snaps the phone together again and smirks. This will be a very… _enjoyable_ call, to say the least. He departs for another room, the one without windows, but not before caressing his daggers and choosing one, a balisong with a long silky blade, his first playmate of the night.

~

Rachel is watching her childhood self with Bruce. He’s flickering from the seven-year-old she just barely remembers to the playboy he is today, but in both forms he’s smiling at her, helping her along, quite calm compared to her giddy self. They’re outside Wayne Manor, although it’s a slightly warped version of the place she knew; the paths are overgrown with too-vibrant weeds, and the chairs on the cracked patio are vacant and dusty, although there’s still wine and food on the tables. But she and Bruce are the same. Joyful.

She follows them to the fountain, where she once pushed Bruce in at a society dinner; some guests were shocked but his parents were laughing as he emerged, sopping and furious – but only for a moment, he always forgave her so quickly. This is older Bruce, picking up little Rachel, who wavers into adult Rachel as she is now, but now Bruce is Batman and Rachel is – scarred, burned, barely more than a mummy in his arms. Batman looks over his shoulder at the other Rachel, who didn’t know she could be seen, and steps into the fountain, and disappears.  
Rachel rushes to the fountain; it’s mucky and full of algae but there’s a face in the water, as if the fountain’s endlessly deep. It’s Harvey. He looks at her with a face full of chagrin, opens his mouth, and screams.

Coins flood out of his mouth, all heads, building up in the water, covering Harvey’s eyes. It’s like some perverse version of a wishing well, and Harvey’s still screaming, except now his screams are more static, synchronized, mechanical, and it suddenly occurs to Rachel that Harvey’s ringing.

She wakes up in a cold sweat to the sound of her land line. Very few people call her on this phone, now; she can only think of a few people who even have the number. Harvey would call her cell, Bruce wouldn’t call at all, Yvette – well, they haven’t spoken in months, and probably wouldn’t again. So she doesn’t know who it could be. But it might be important, so she clambers out of bed and goes to the phone, glad she’s a quick riser.

“’Lo?” she yawns into the phone.

“Having a good nigh- _tuh?_ ” She doesn’t recognize the voice at all, but it’s notably bizarre. He’s barely said one sentence and she can already hear the skipped vowels, the stretched consonants.

“Bruce?” she asks doubtfully. “This isn’t funny. I have to be in court tomorrow and it’s two in the morning.”

A cackle. It almost sounds like static. “I’m not your ickle Brucie-kins, beautiful. Think harder.”

“Do I even know you? You don’t sound familiar.” Rachel crouches on the sofa by the large windows and lays her head on her knees. She closes her eyes.

“I should. You’ve been seeing me on the news a lot – a _lot!_ ” he snickers.

“I’m going to hang up now,” Rachel says, abandoning all pretense of politeness. “Go harass someone else, okay?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The voice is a sudden whisper. “Don’t you want to know why?”

All right, he’s beginning to sound familiar now, it’s the laughter that does it. She can’t put her finger on the identity, but a ball of dread has started to roll around her nervous system.

“Why?” she asks finally.

“What kind of…car…does Harvey Dent drive?” The way he says Harvey’s name triggers her memory, and the ball of dread’s gaining speed now, making her panicky and fluttery.

“Joker,” she says, in a kind of awed whisper. “The Joker.”

A stifled giggle. “You found me out, Rachel. Is it a dark blue Nissan? I think it is. But really, you should buy better cars for your DAs. Put those tax dollars to work!”

“If you touch Harvey – ” she starts, but he interrupts her. She guesses that he’s not one for manners.

“Marvey Harvey’s just – fine. Or he will be, as long as you don’t hang up the phone.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m no- _tuh_. As a matter of fact, I’m right outside his house. _Right now_. Too bad there’s a bunch of bombs wired up to his car! A bunch! Like bananas.”

Rachel’s mouth has gone dry, her body quaking, but at least her mind isn’t stuttering. Much.

“What do you want from me?” she whispers.

“I want you… _to play_.”

“You’re insane.”

“You know, I’m getting _really sick and tired_ of people telling me that!” She hears something break, like he’s just thrown a glass at the wall – or punched through a window. Harvey sleeps on the ground floor.

“Look,” she says hurriedly, “look. Okay. I’ll talk to you. Just…tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

“Anything?” he says slyly, accompanied by a devious giggle.

“I – I don’t know,” she stammers. “It depends.”

“What do you expect from me, Raaaay-chel? D’you want me to say, Take off your, uh, panties, Raaaay-chel? Maybe breathe a little heavier? Use a…toy…if you’ve got one handy?” A shrill giggle. “Or your hand, if you’ve got one _handy_!”

“Is that what you want?” This makes Rachel feel a little better; phone sex is no big deal, it’s not like she hasn’t done it before.

“No,” and his voice grows deadly serious again. “Go to your _kit_ -chen, Rachel.” He rolls the hard “ch” sounds like they’re chocolate in his mouth.

“Okay.” She unfolds herself from the sofa and pads into the kitchen. The lights make her wince when she flicks them on; their fluorescence is unappreciated. She leans on the doorjamb and speaks into the phone.

“Now what?”

Quiet, so quiet. She can hear rustling in the background; is she on speakerphone? The sound of – the sound of a zipper. Oh god. She wishes she was somewhere, anywhere else, doing almost anything different than this. Almost.

“Knife,” he says finally.

“Knife?” she asks blankly. “What – oh fuck. No, no, no, I’m not doing that.”

“Goodbye, Harvey!” he screams suddenly, and she hears him move. Standing to get the detonator, perhaps?

“Stop!” she shouts at him. “Stop, look, okay, I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Fuck.”

“Make it nice and loooong,” he nearly groans, fearsomely sensual. There’s an odd warmth spreading through her veins – she likes that noise. Quite a lot.

There are quite a few knives to choose from; Rachel’s one of those people who enjoys buying the accoutrements of home life without ever using them. In the end, she chooses what looks like an overly long steak knife, and returns to the sofa.

“Now what?” she asks.

“Rachel. _Sweetheart_. Use your, uh, imagination!”

She looks at the knife, angles it to see it gleam.

“Very phallic,” she murmurs. “How original.”

A snort. “Oh-riginal. That’s me, babe. But…uh, get on with it. I don’t have all night!”

“Don’t you?”

Rachel has no interest in BDSM (that she’ll admit to herself), and she imagines kinky scenarios to be a bit awkward for all involved. But when she tilts her head and licks the knife, a long sweep up the blade, a jolt goes from her stomach to her groin and she inhales without quite meaning to.

“Ow,” she says, surprised, and lightly drags her tongue over her teeth. Yes, there. She cut herself. How competent.

“Hurt yourself, Rachel?” he asks conspiratorially. Her lips quirk without meaning to.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I cut my tongue.”

“Oooh,” he breathes. “Dee- _light_ -ful. I think we’re going to get along, get along, uh, _just fine_.”

~

“Really?” she asks, so coy, so curious, that Joker flat-out _grins_ , scrunching his scars into a different smile than usual. Oh Rachel, he wants to say, you _filthy_ filthy girl, not such a martyr now, are we?

“Rachel,” he whispers, what a delicious name, it sounds like the hard crunch of bone breaking, and at the thought of her pretty bones doing just that he grits his teeth and slides his knife ever so gently into the skin of his upper thigh. His muscle twitches and the pain shivers up his spine, he gasps and arches. Delightful anticipation! He hasn’t even _touched_ himself yet but at the rate this is going he will, oh he will, sooner than expected, while she bleeds on the fine carpet of her living room floor.

“So,” he murmurs, once he’s gotten some measure of control again, “what do you plan to _do_ with that pretty knife of yours?”

~

He says her name – no, he _moans_ it, and gives a sudden little gasp. She can hear his teeth clack together, like he’s biting back words, sounds, any number of delicious sounds. The knife glitters at her. She nibbles on her tongue, and the tiny twinge of pain only makes her indecision worse.

In the end, she remembers Harvey, thinks of the bombs wired to his car (like bananas, he said, how _perverse_ ), and lets go of her bothersome inhibitions. If she’s going to play puppet for a freak like the Joker, she’s damn well going to _enjoy_ it, after all.

“What am I going to do with the knife?” she wonders aloud, shifting to her knees, turning the phone on speaker and setting it gently on the cushion. “I’m…not sure. I’m new to this, you know. Any ideas?”

There’s definitely a hint of a cackle in his voice when he responds, “Abso-lutely _no_ idea – but then again…what are knives used for?”

“Cutting,” she breathes, and slits the fabric of her cheap nightshirt down the front, ripping it for the Joker’s edification.

He whimpers slightly (drawing his own blade across his stomach to the tune of her tearing shirt), and she’s encouraged, not to mention excited, for his noises do make her…wet.

“Oh,” she whispers, lightly sliding the point of the knife across her thigh, skin prickling at the bite, “oh, my god, this – ”

“It’s… _good_ ,” he answers, matching her tone, enunciating the consonants.

“Yes,” she says, and leans back, stretching her legs out, balancing the knife on her stomach, “so good.”

She strokes herself with one nail and shivers; an impulse comes to her, something she’s said before in previous situations (although never one quite like this).

“What would you do with me,” she asks, “if I was with you?”

Joker half-laughs, half-sighs (smearing his own blood across his belly and finally _finally_ wrapping one hand around his cock).

“I…would _cut_ you,” he says, and breathes out heavily, “rip that pretty skin of yours.” A giggle. “Think of it as… _redecoration_ , if you want.”

Rachel is shaking, sketching circles around her clit with her nail, making tiny pleasure noises already. She’s not going to last very long.

“Ever tasted blood, Rachel?” he continues, “shimmery tasty bloo- _duh_ , it’s like when you put a penny in your mouth. So _metal-lick_ , but it sliiiiides down your throat easy-peasy,” he shudders, she can hear it in his voice, exhales shakily, licks his lips, “I wonder what _you_ would taste like, so _pale_ , so – _oh_ – _delicate_. I can see your – _veins_ – right under your skin. _Ah!_ ” (Now he’s on his knees, bracing himself with one hand, the other working at himself, rough and desperate – the wound on his stomach is still oozing blood.)

“ _Shit_ ,” Rachel moans, and her muscles tense and quiver, she blindly grabs for something and it’s the knife, fallen to the floor – she grabs it by the blade and it bites her palm viciously and that’s the little bit of sensation she needs to come, whimpering like the sick little puppy she really, truly is.

Joker hisses and whines – he’s usually much more vocal than this but tonight he lacks the particular verve he’ll find in their next encounter – and collapses into helpless, heaving laughter, crackling over the telephone like static. He hangs up the phone himself – it only takes a finger, after all – and leaves Rachel trembling on her couch, nursing those slices in her palm, and bitterly condemning herself for coming just so hard at the sound of his voice.  
Of course, Rachel is at her core a sensible person, and after a few minutes she stands and rinses her hand under cold water in the kitchen sink. She finds her first-aid kit lying unused in the hall closet and wraps sterile gauze around the shallow cuts, sitting on her sofa in front of the television, and later she’ll turn it on, watching the news channels with haunted eyes, waiting for any word from Harvey.

~

Joker hums while he stitches himself up, the pain is just so scrumptious he can’t help himself, and congratulates himself on a task well done, for darling Rachel’s probably cursing herself right – about – _now_ for giving in so easily, the little whore! The self-loathing must be running so thickly through her veins – how long until she calls Harvey Dent sobbing? Will she tell him what happened? No, she won’t, this’ll be their little _secret_.

For now.


End file.
